


Don't Take Any Kindness

by rosenshyne



Category: Cut & Run - Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux
Genre: Description of Off-Screen Torture, Graphic Death of a Minor Bad Guy (oc), M/M, Mob Typical Violence, Non-Canonical Character Death, death!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosenshyne/pseuds/rosenshyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the unthinkable, Kelly is lead astray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Take Any Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Rocks and Water" by Deb Talan
> 
>  
> 
> The devil he wore such a fine, fine shirt  
> And it stayed so clean while he dragged me to the dirt  
> Now honey, don't trust anyone can look you in the eye  
> Don't take any kindness, it's a demon in disguise

They don't want to leave him alone. Ty pulls with a hand on his arm, Owen's voice calming like that damned dog whisperer, but he won't be managed. There's a scuffle; Ty's got a split lip and a ripped collar, but Zane pulls him away, herds him back to their sedan before more damage is done. Owen and Digger clear what's left of the funeral party, direct the workers away discretely. They walk along a manicured path between mausoleums, keeping watch but giving him space.

He hates them, a little. There's too much space, without Nick there to occupy it. Too much silence and stillness, and he can't smell the ocean anymore, not even when he's on the boat, and it's driving him quietly crazy. He holds himself still because he's afraid of flying apart; he doesn't speak because he's afraid he won't stop screaming. Of course, when he's not alone... It's not their presence he's missing. He hates them all a little, then, too.

There's damp condensing in the air when the sound of hushed footsteps on grass drags him from contemplation. It's just a box, really. Something common. Nothing unusual. He can't look away.

“Lad.” It's Paddy's baritone, and Kelly is honestly shocked for a moment; then he can't imagine why. Where else would Paddy be on the day of his son's funeral? Kelly turns blindly, confused until he realizes he's crying, that's why he can't see, that's why he can't breathe, and then he's buried in wet-salt-wool and a strong embrace. He thinks of Nick, hard and sharp under his ribs, and he loses a little time.

Eventually, he's barren. There's dust in his throat, and fire behind his eyes, but he can see, he can breathe, and he pushes himself slowly out of secure arms. Paddy reaches for a silk square, holds Kelly's chin gently with thumb and forefinger, softly sweeps all evidence of tears away. Paddy's own are red-rimmed, his mouth torn like a page, but otherwise there is no evidence of what this moment must cost him. Kelly draws in a shaky breath, then another, his apology the first words to crack his lips in days.

“No,” Paddy shushes, silk neatly folded and contained, his large hands adjusting Kelly's suit. It's the one he wore last time they met, the one Nick picked out, and suddenly there are spots behind Kelly's eyes, and he feels as if he might float away. He comes back to a sharp pain in his left cheek, inhales sharply, his eyes locking on Paddy's close by. “You tracking, lad?” His brogue is heavy with worry, his right hand warm over the sting, and Kelly licks his lips.

“You shouldn't be alone right now, Kelly, it's not good for you. Take it from someone who knows, yeah?” Kelly manages to explain that he's not alone, his brothers are here; his mouth feels desiccated, tastes of iron and burnt rubber. He can't hear his own voice over the whistling in his ears, but when he tries to excuse himself Paddy's shushing him again.

“No, you've nothing to apologize for, and nothing to worry about, nothing at all.” Paddy's hands are thick on his shoulders, and for a tilting minute Kelly imagines himself as Atlas, the weight of Nick's absence driving him into the Earth. Or something. Kelly tries to focus on the measured resonance of Paddy's brogue. “You'll be taken care of, you understand me, Kelly? I owed that boy one more favor, and I'll not have it said Paddy don't mind his debts.”

Kelly tunes in suddenly, completely, more inside himself than he has been since the moment he walked into the morgue five days ago. He swallows the gasp in his throat, and blinks rapidly, attempts to grasp his moorings. 

“I won't hear any arguments, and that's the end of it. You need anything, anything at all,” Paddy slips slender card-stock into one of Kelly's suit pockets, pulls him close for a kiss on each cheek, warm hands cradling his skull, and making Kelly close his eyes against sudden vertigo. He almost misses the whisper on his left.

“I know who killed my boy.” And then the right, “We'll burn 'em down.” 

And then Kelly's looking the old Irish mob boss in the eye, his own wide and shocked, he knows. Paddy runs a thumb down Kelly's jaw, smiles with too many teeth, and turns away.

“Don't you worry, lad,” he tosses back over his shoulder, Mikey joining him at the treeline, “Ol' Paddy'll make it right. You wait and see.” 

+++

When Owen comes back for him, Kelly is alone. He stares at the grave, head buzzing like someone chucked a flash-bang. Already the sharp edges of the world are sinking back into the static he's been drowning in. He can feel the weight of Owen's concern like a satellite; present, shining, remote. When he eventually speaks, Owen's voice is gentle and undemanding. “Hey Doc, you ready?”

Kelly's mouth is filled with tar; the whispered “No,” sticks and drips as he pushes it past seared lips. Owen startles like he wasn't expecting an answer; Kelly continues before he can recover. He addresses the precise pattern on ribbons on Owen's chest in favor of looking him in the eye. “Take me home.” He gags on the last, swallows once. “Please.” His vision shimmers, and then Owen is holding him up and they're walking away. There's nothing but wind in his thoughts.

The ride home is near-silent, Owen and Digger's low murmurs from the front seat as removed from Kelly as the ocean. Owen watches him through the mirror, worry etched on his face. Kelly watches nothing, but runs his fingertips along the edges of the card in his pocket the whole ride home.

+++

Twenty-three days after he buries his heart in the ground, Kelly is finally alone. The boys have gone home, have bought in to the mask he's wearing, believe him when he says he'll keep in touch, he's okay. The _Green_ is a mausoleum; every book, every artifact, every board and fixture was chosen precisely to reflect a now absent god. Kelly stares at the dream-catcher above their bed, can't imagine spending the rest of his life on this ghost ship; he hunches his shoulders against the idea of abandoning all that's left.

He's not okay.

Kelly startles at the unexpected touch on his shoulder, reacts with all the force God and the United States Navy saw fit to give him. The spike of adrenaline feels like free-fall over a cliff; he's alive for the first time in three weeks. The man in his choke-hold is tapping out, not struggling, and Kelly abruptly lets him go.

It's Mikey. Kelly helps him to the galley, apologizing and checking for damage on auto-pilot. Mikey waves him off with a rueful “I know better'n to sneak up on a man like you.” Kelly settles him in a straight-backed chair, brings him a tall glass of ice water. Mikey drains half in one go, then rolls it gently between meaty palms.

“This ain't a social call, Kelly.” Mikey stalls his questions with a gesture, continues, “There's something Paddy wants you to see. This is,” he pauses for a moment, lips twisting. “You don't have to come with me now, and you don't have to stay when we get there, and you don't owe anything after, but I need you to understand, kid, this is an invitation.” Mikey is obviously worried; Kelly appreciates the warning.

He looks through the arched doorway of the galley, out at the home Nick will never return to. His voice is steady. “I understand. Let me get my coat.”

+++

The stars are ice on oil, clouds chased by the brisk wind. The crunch of gravel and shriek of old metal fly away as they slip into an abandoned dockside warehouse. The only light comes from box construction lamps hung in a haphazard circle. Kelly feels nerves fire like a zipper down his spine as he takes in the tableau. There's a man off-center of the spotlight; brunette, bound to a chair, bloody and beaten to hell. A blonde with rolled white sleeves and improbable facial hair wipes down metal instruments with an equally white towel. He's whistling around thick whiskers and muttonchops; after a moment Kelly recognizes _the pipes, the pipes, are calling_ , and the Hippocratic Oath dies a quiet death as he looks away, delivers himself into Paddy's waiting embrace.

No scent of salt-wool this time, without the overcoat. Paddy smells of whiskey and smoke now, but the comfort is the same. He feels the heft of Paddy's signet ring pressing where he cups his skull, the confirmation of a gentle kiss to his cheek. Kelly can't help the way he flexes his hands in the back of Paddy's suit jacket, and releases his grip before expensive fabric can wrinkle, but Paddy only tightens his own hold in return. Kelly gives in, allows himself a moment to steal some of that rock steady strength, to accept the a sheltered port in the storm. He pushes back long before he wants to, and this time Paddy lets him. Settles one weighty paw on each shoulder just like he did weeks before, and Kelly's body comes to attention, his focus on Paddy as he speaks.

“The worthless fuck killed our Nicky, he's gone to Hell where he belongs. But this fucking scum, he was there. Now, he's told us everything he knew, lad, absolutely everything, and we're gonna hunt down every one of those Vega fucks still breathing, and we're going to fucking murder them. This is war, lad. They took my boy. And tonight is just the start.” He squeezes gently, says softer, “I thought you might like to see him off.”

Kelly's heart slams against his ribs, God's voice a hurricane reverberating in his sternum. Paddy closes the distance to the dead man, no more than a few steps, the Glock in his right hand black and shiny. Kelly turns with him, watches as Paddy presses the muzzle to bloody skin. There are bees in his throat, and he opens his mouth before they sting him.

“Wait.” Silence, now, all eyes on Kelly, but all he can see is an enemy who took everything from him. Didn't have his hand on the blade, sure, but if not for him and his friends, Nick would be here. Kelly is close enough to touch now, and he lets the swarm fly. “Nick was stabbed.” A steady breath in and out, then, “Twice.” He doesn't take his eyes off the sacrificial lamb. Paddy makes a gesture he doesn't catch, and then the blonde is on his left, presents a sleek K-bar on pristine terry. 

Kelly doesn't hesitate. He hefts the knife in his right hand, regards the captive in front him, and feels the typhoon beneath his skin finally break.

It's one smooth motion. His left hand clenching in thick hair, pulling up and back as Kelly drives the blade in hard under his ribs, twisting a ragged scream as he goes. He pulls it out the same way, in the opposite direction. He waits out the man's choked sobs, waits till terrorized eyes meet his. Staring at his battered face, Kelly knows Paddy said this man was responsible, this is justice, this is right. Kelly's never made a habit of lying to himself. This is vengeance, not justice. It won't bring Nick back.

Then again, letting the scumbag walk won't bring him back, either.

Kelly bares his teeth in something that isn't a smile, murmurs “That's one,” and stabs the fucker again. The second strike is shorter, neater, straight in and out. Kelly passes the blade to waiting hands, but doesn't look away; he waits, watching for the last spark of life to catch and fall. His hands are bloody when he finally pulls away, but they don't shake. Nothing shakes.

Paddy corrals him outside into a dim-lit interior and soft leather upholstery. He has another towel in hand, pulls cold water from a hidden cabinet and starts to clean the worst of the stain from Kelly's fingertips. Mikey and Irish Buffalo Bill are hidden behind the front partition; the illusion of privacy. Paddy waits until Kelly focuses on him.

“You alright, lad?” The brogue is comforting, more than it should be, and Kelly feels a sudden frisson of danger at where he's sitting, who he's sitting with, what he's just done. He ignores it, and nods. Paddy huffs, apparently satisfied, and puts the bottle and stained cloth away before clasping both Kelly's hands in his, leans in close enough Kelly can see the emerald of his eyes. They're so close to the right color, and they're so sincere.

“I'm proud of you, Kelly, that was very well done. The boys'll remember that.” He seems satisfied, and Kelly clenches his teeth hard around a growl.

“It wasn't enough.” The syllables are flat and mean. “I wanted him to suffer.” He doesn't mean to say it. It's not a lie.

Paddy squeezes his hands, reassures him. “Oh, he did, lad. I absolutely guarantee it.” Kelly nods slowly, repeats himself. This time his tone is convicted. “It wasn't enough.”

Paddy sighs a huffed laugh and releases Kelly's hands, reclines back against hand-stitched leather, arms wide along the back. He nods for emphasis. “It never is, Kelly. Remember that.”

The rest of the ride passes in warm silence, streetlamps streaking like comets outside. Paddy's regard is warm and doesn't threaten, and Kelly focuses on blunt fingertips, nails square and neatly manicured, a single thick gold ring on one hand. 

When they reach the marina, Paddy leans forward, and Kelly accepts the now expected kiss. Mikey opens the door for him and Kelly steps out, at a loss for words. He pauses at the last moment, one foot still inside, and leans in to look at Paddy. “About Vega,” he licks his lips, unsure how to finish the thought. Paddy's smile in the dim light is gentle. “Get some sleep, Kelly. There's anything you need, Mikey'll see to it.” He nods and Mikey takes his arm, pulls him to stand before closing the door. They walk in silence down the pier to the _Fiddler's Green_ , waves a soft counterpoint to their footsteps.

A thousand questions swirl in Kelly's head; in the end he only asks one. “If Paddy sends you over again, should I let you in?” Kelly faces him head-on as he says it; Mikey does him the courtesy of meeting his gaze when he answers.

“If it's revenge you want, Paddy'll give it to you, but I'm thinking Nicky wouldn't want—”

“Nick's not here.” Kelly feels his own words like a slap, the physical weight of them in the air. He sounds bitter; the feeling settles like coal behind his sternum.

Mikey blows out a hard breath and rocks back on his heels, nods slowly before coming to a decision. “Paddy's regard; it's a dangerous sort of thing to have, Kelly. You take care.” Kelly tracks his movements back down the pier until Mikey's out of sight. When he's alone again he moves on autopilot, goes below deck and drops clothing at random before sliding into the shower. Paddy was through; there's no pink in the suds disappearing down the drain. He swipes a towel over fogged glass when he's done; no regret shows in the mirror.

He feels better than he has in days. There's a slow roll in his belly that will have to be dealt with eventually, but the soft fluff that has clung to every moment for weeks is gone, scrubbed away. His thoughts are focused, his heartbeat steady. Mikey's right, of course, Nick wouldn't approve of what he's about to do.

It doesn't matter. By the time he turns off the light, sinks into the first deep sleep since Nick's death, the decision is already made.


End file.
